Lunchtime with a blizzard blowing in somewhere on the plains of eastern Nebraska . . .

Oh to be here.

Farm life and that fun what with the fields to gaze out on in their beautiful shades of green and yellow when the crops came in. Vegetable garden to hoe and a veritable ribbon of tomatoes to can until the stove feels red hot and the kitchen feels hotter with the flies dancing on the other side of the screen door. Ones in the store in pretty cans with pictures but the other ladies carrying on. Something about a real wife growing her own food and not being lazy and buying it canned by someone else somewhere else with the stems and things living someplace else in their giant mound.

A writer turned into a gentleman wheat farmer and that not . . . . just not. . . Skies that go on forever and the children to tend and knit sweaters for while they grow like weeds. But not normal things for them to do. Jumping from haylofts and walking into town instead of taking the streetcar into town to window shop and have lunch at the lunch counter in the big café in the train station.

A grand life but a photograph falling out of the back of the album that fell behind the bookcase and a dreamtime back. Wanting to be a model and the neighbor lady knowing someone at Neiman Marcus. Getting a job wearing evening gowns for rich ladies to see while their granddaughters sit on little gold chairs on either side with eyes big as saucers. Not a forever thing for sure but a dream lived for real instead of in your head . . .

A model displays an evening dress for customers at Nieman-Marcus in Dallas, Texas. 1938 image. via Traces of Texas.

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